Good Dog
by Calliatra
Summary: Sometimes you can't control the outcome. Sometimes you have to look at the reality in front of you and accept it./i Tag/Fix-It for 5x13 "Dog Tags."


**Good Dog**

_by Calliatra_

**Spoilers: **5x13 "Dog Tags"**  
>Disclaimer: <strong>All recognizable NCIS characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary**: _Sometimes you can't control the outcome. Sometimes you have to look at the reality in front of you and accept it. _Tag/Fix-It for 5x13 "Dog Tags." Written for the _Fix It Challenge,_ the _Episode Tag Challenge _and the _Family Challenge_.

* * *

><p>"The hospital got the results." Luca's tone was flat and exhausted. Hopeless.<p>

"No!" Abby cried, gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. "It can't be! They've got to run the test twice! There's a .02 chance that it's a false positive and I know that sounds like it never happens, but with the huge number of people they test all across the country every day there's actually a whole lot of false positives and it's got to happen to someone!"

"Abby…"

"No! This can't be happening, not to us! Please, Luca, _please_ tell me it's not-"

"It is." His voice was broken, cracked and shattered by the news the way she now was. The way her family now was.

His sister made a small hiccupping noise.

"Abby?" he asked, softly.

"How fast-" she broke off, unable to ask the question.

"Fast. A couple of weeks probably, no more than a few months." Luca's voice faded towards the end, muffled by a loud rushing noise in her ears and an uneven sort of staccato hiss. It was her own breathing, Abby realized. She was hyperventilating.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced herself to take long, slow breaths. The plastic of the phone dug into her hand.

"Abby?"

In and out, in and out. Just breathing.

"Abby."

Iiiiiiiiiiin and ouuuuuut.

"Abby!" Luca's voice finally broke through to her. He sounded scared and she wondered vaguely what there was left to be scared of. "I'm here," she said.

"Are you okay?"

Of course she was. Her body was breathing and pumping blood and keeping her alive. It would continue to do that for the foreseeable future. But her father's wouldn't. Like a cannonball to the chest, the realization hit her. In a few weeks, only a few weeks, her father would be dead.

He wouldn't smile at her anymore, wouldn't hug her, and his hands wouldn't dance through the air as he told her how much he loved her, and how proud he was of her. He would be gone, completely gone. And she would have to continue living in a world that no longer contained her father.

"No," she whispered. And then she cried. She bent forward, curling up on herself, and listened to her brother's quiet breathing as sobs wracked her body.

* * *

><p>There was no use crying over spilt milk, her father had taught her. No use bemoaning something she couldn't change. So she didn't. She took vacation time, went to Jefferson for two weeks, and pretended not to notice the way her father had to hold on to furniture to stand up now. She increased their video chats to twice a week, and pretended not to notice how much his hands shook as he told her he was doing well. She worked the an even crazier schedule than she always had and pretended not to notice her own relief when she dropped into bed and blacked out right away, with no room left for thoughts.<p>

She didn't tell anyone. There was nothing anyone could do, nothing except say they were sorry, or dumbly try to cheer her up. She didn't want to be cheered up. She was fine, and she was dealing with it on her own.

She didn't want to see pity in everyone's eyes when they looked at her. She wanted to do her job and work for her charities and talk to her friends the way she always did. She wanted normality. She didn't need pity. And she especially didn't need someone who didn't appreciate their father pretending they knew how she felt. It was crazy, how many people cut themselves off from their fathers and refused to forgive them for one thing or another. Did they not know that time was short, or did they really not care? Abby wanted to scream and yell at them, so she made herself stay away as much as possible. The last thing she needed right now was a fight with her surrogate family.

She turned up her music, rolled her chair to her computer and started working on a fiber analysis. It was the only thing to do.

* * *

><p>The moment Abby laid eyes on the dog, she knew he needed her help. He was lying injured and tied up on the back seat of a car, and apparently to McGee, he was an afterthought. Her heart went out to him. She didn't understand how anyone could hurt such a wonderful, loving animal on purpose. How could McGee have shot him? This dog wasn't a killer; the mere thought was ridiculous. He was lying there quietly, with warm, cuddly fur, soft eyes the same color as Luca's, and a whimper that broke her heart. It didn't matter what McGee said.<p>

The name Butch, though, didn't fit. 'Butch' said 'strong,' but it also said 'rough' with even a little bit of 'harsh.'

"There's nothing harsh at all about you, is there?" she asked, combing carefully through his fur in search of trace evidence.

The dog continued to lie, docile, on the floor, and said nothing.

"The strong, silent type, are you? Well, I have just the name for you! What do you think of 'Jethro'?"

He gave a soft bark of agreement.

"Yes, that's right." She scratched one of his ears, "It's a very strong name. But not in an angry way, like 'Butch.' It says," she imitated Gibbs' voice, "'I'm strong and silent and I act all tough, but underneath I'm really warm and caring and cuddly.'" Abby quickly looked around her and was relieved that for once, Gibbs hadn't snuck up her. "You're warm and cuddly, aren't you? Aren't you?" she asked, stroking the silky fur of Jethro's back. "Good dog!" she cooed. "Good Jethro."

.

His fur was just so soft, so warm, and his eyes so sweet that she didn't know how anyone could resist cuddling Jethro. She did know, though, that he was not going to stay in that kennel. It was like a prison for dogs, and making him stay in there was like saying he was guilty. It wasn't often that she disobeyed a direct order from Gibbs, but she believed in innocent until proven guilty. More importantly, she believed in Jethro. "You wouldn't ever hurt anyone, would you? Of course you wouldn't. And I'm going to prove it!"

.

"Come, Jethro, look at this!"

The dog trotted over from the corner he'd been lying in and obediently directed his eyes at Abby's monitor.

"Look, that's one of the hairs I found in your mouth. It matches that one over there, see? And that," she said firmly, "is how I know you didn't kill Hanson. It's one of his arm hairs. You were just trying to drag him away, to save him, weren't you?"

Jethro gave a soft whine.

"I know," Abby said, crouching down and hugging him closely. "But he knows you were trying to protect him. It's what you do; you protect the people you love. And I'll protect you, I promise you that."

.

"You have to give the dog back, Abs."

No, she didn't. Giving him back, with the evidence Ducky has collected would mean a death sentence for Jethro, and she couldn't let that happen. She couldn't see a way out of it at the moment, but she would find one. She _had_ to. And in the mean time, she would stall. For as long as it took. She wouldn't give up, no matter how high the evidence was stacked against Jethro. He was far too gentle and caring to ever harm anyone! She didn't understand how anyone could think differently. It was so clear in his eyes.

.

"I suppose you're going to order me to give him up, huh?"

She had expected it to be Gibbs who would march in, break the lock on her door just by glaring at it, and then order in no uncertain terms to give up "the dog." Instead, it was the Director. That was when Abby knew she'd lost the fight.

But who cared what anyone else thought? She felt her anger bubbling up and could barely keep herself from shouting. Jethro was _innocent_, and he could live a long, happy life if only she could have more time to find proof.

Or, she thought, if she had found some in the time she had had. But she hadn't. She had failed, and now a good, loving dog would die for no reason. The unfairness of it all made her want to scream and thrash and beat at the floor in impotent rage.

"You have to stand up for what you believe in!" she burst out. "You have to stick to your guns until you can make a wrong right!" And there was nothing, nothing more wrong than Jethro dying.

"Sometimes things aren't so simple, Abby," the Director said softly, surprisingly kind. "Sometimes you can't control the outcome. Sometimes you have to look at the reality in front of you and accept it."

It was as if she had heard the words before, as if they hadn't come from the Director, but had been echoing in the background all along. She ignored it. That was saying there was no hope, and there was _always_ hope! Even when she was in the worst kind of trouble, she never gave up hope, because she knew her Gibbs would come to rescue her. He would move heaven and earth if had to. Now it was her turn to be that person, the one someone else – _Jethro –_ could completely rely on.

"I can't." She shook her head obstinately. "I won't."

.

It happened so fast. One wrong-sounding whimper, then a cough, and suddenly the grey floor was specked with blood. A warm, furry body in her arms, then pushing a gurney, the elevator down to autopsy – _autopsy_ – and dark red stains on white cotton.

"Is he dying?" He _couldn't_ be!

"I don't know." Usually she admired Ducky's care with words, but right now she hated it.

"That's not a good answer!" He couldn't die, not Jethro, too, not now! Not after she had convinced the Director to give her just a bit more time to find something else, to find the thing that could prove him innocent. That could save his life.

Jethro's life was in Ducky and Palmer's hands now, and all she could do was stand aside and pray. _Please, please, please don't let him die! _She refused to leave; there was no way she was leaving him alone. She looked straight at Jethro and tried to convey the message without saying it out loud. _Don't worry, I'm here. Everything's going to be all right._

His brown eyes blinked at her, then suddenly the scene changed and they were replaced with a different pair of the same color, gazing lovingly at her as strong arms lifted her up and pulled her into a warm embrace. _Daddy!_ She wanted to call out, but her throat closed up and he couldn't have heard her anyway and his eyes were closed now so he couldn't see her hands frantically signing. And then, in a heartbeat, she was back in autopsy, and Ducky was holding up something he had pulled from Jethro's stomach.

"Your Jethro might be the first to survive a trip to the autopsy," he said, and though she was still dazed, she got the message. Jethro, at least, would live.

.

She still didn't understand how McGee could care so little, but she did now understand why she cared more than anyone else.

_Sometimes you can't control the outcome. Sometimes you have to look at the reality in front of you and accept it._

Her father was dying.

No matter what she did, she couldn't change that.

But Jethro wasn't just a stand-in for her father, he was a living, breathing being in his own right, and him, at least, she could protect_._ She only had to prove that it was another dog that mauled Hanson. That Jethro had been trying to save him, and that he was only trying to protect his owner when he attacked McGee. She knew it was true, and she would prove it.

And then, in the end, she didn't have to. The team did it for her, by catching the killer and getting a confession. After fighting for so long, it was hard to believe that it was finally over. Then it sank it. Jethro was safe. Jethro would live.

.

And still she had to let him go. She couldn't keep Jethro, and deep down she knew that it probably wouldn't be good for her if she did. What she could do was guarantee him a good home.

McGee had been looking for a dog, and Jethro was the perfect match for him. He just hadn't realized it yet.

"That dog tasted my blood, and I think he liked it." There it was again, that focus on the past, the unwillingness to forgive. Why couldn't anyone else see how _wrong_ that was? McGee had to understand that Jethro had only been trying to protect his owner. And Jethro had to realize that McGee had only been trying to protect himself when he shot him.

Abby had. She could see, now that her thinking had cleared up a bit, that McGee would never hurt an innocent creature on purpose. It was also her turn to forgive and apologize. She wasn't good at it, but she was acknowledging it by trusting him with Jethro. She knew McGee would give him a good home. And she knew that he would forgive her, too, for her harshness. It was what family did, and she planned to fiercely guard every part she still had left.

"Sometimes you have to look at the reality in front of you and accept it."

She had, and was the better for it.


End file.
